


My Turn

by Ghostinthehouse



Series: Demon and Angel Professors [44]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:54:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22361404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostinthehouse/pseuds/Ghostinthehouse
Summary: Aziraphale looked at him, blinking quickly, and then leaned in as Crowley wound long arms around him, like ivy around a tree.One-shot
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling
Series: Demon and Angel Professors [44]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1412962
Comments: 43
Kudos: 1319
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, In Which there is Healing





	My Turn

"Sushi for three then," Crowley agreed, giving Warlock both the money and directions. "Vegetarian for me, fish for him, and whatever you want for yourself. Appreciate it."

Warlock grinned and ducked out of the flat.

Crowley waited until the door closed and then turned to Aziraphale, beside him on the sofa, who smiled brightly back. A touch too bright and brittle and quick-worded (not yet babbling, but closing in on it), to Crowley's eye. All signs that he was coming to the end of his ability to be strong for others.

"C'm'ere, angel," he said, opening his arms. "My turn to be the shoulder for a bit."

Aziraphale looked at him, blinking quickly, and then hesitantly leaned in as Crowley wound long arms around him, like ivy around a tree.

Crowley murmured, "It's just us right now. I'll never tell. You're safe with me." He felt the aching tension ease in his hold, beneath the ever-present softness and warmth. "My turn," he repeated, and felt it sink in.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and rested his head on Crowley's shoulder and let the strain of the last months seep out in silent, still, tears. The sort of tears learned early on, when silence and stillness are the only defences to having such a vulnerability found out, and ingrained so deep that they can't be unlearned again. For his part, Crowley stayed quiet and still himself, only tightening his arms in support. It had taken long enough for Aziraphale to let his guard down in Crowley's presence, he wasn't going to push his angel to do it in anyone else's presence if he didn't feel up to it. It wasn't that the warmth and softness and strength were false, they just had limits. Beyond those limits he was like one of his own well-read books: battered, creased, mended in places, binding replaced at least twice, prone to showing only those parts seen most often before.

Sure enough, Aziraphale sat up again well before Warlock was due back, eyes suspiciously bright, but the brittleness eased somewhat, and went to wash the evidence off his face. Crowley watched him go with a tenderly indulgent smile.

***

"Did I take long enough?" Warlock asked Crowley very quietly as they made drinks to go with the meal.

"Yeah," Crowley replied just as quietly. "I suppose I should say thank you."

Warlock rolled their eyes. "You hate it when people thank you."

"True. Still appreciate it. And he's better for it, so."

"Noted. Is it- Is it something I did, that he won't..."

Crowley shook his head quickly. "His people weren't any kinder to him than mine were to me." He looked at Warlock, one corner of his mouth pulling up in an almost bitter smile. "Or yours to you, for that matter. It just shows up differently."

"Oh." Warlock thought about that for a long moment, hands steady on the kettle. At last they said, "Weren't they supposed to be nice?"

"People who have to tell you that they're nice, rarely are. People who are actually nice," Crowley's head tilted briefly in Aziraphale's general direction, "are usually too busy being nice to think about how nice they are - and too nice to say that they are."

Warlock gave him a small but wicked smile. "Like you then," they said, and scarpered with the teacups before Crowley could get it together enough to do more than hiss.

"Don't call me that! I'm not 'nice'. I've never claimed to be _nice_!"

"Precisely!" Warlock countered, and was gone.

Crowley rubbed a hand over his face. He'd admit, grudgingly, to a spark of goodness. To a kind heart (at least towards his angel) and gentle hands (for plants, and kids, and animals) and patience (with questions and curiousity, anyway). Niceness was a smoothing over, a pretence that all was lovely, an avoidance of harsher realities. Everything that he wasn't.

Nice. Ugh. He sighed and went to join the others. Making them wait wouldn't be fair, after all.


End file.
